


the warmest bed i've ever known

by ceedawkes



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Luke Skywalker, Caretaking, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Is that a kink, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Outdoor Sex, Pre-Series, Riding, Spoilers for S02E08, at the end, nursed back to health, where the cowboy gets injured and the farm boy/girl nurses him back to health?, yeah that, you know that trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:40:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28250049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceedawkes/pseuds/ceedawkes
Summary: pre-original series, din djarin is injured on a remote planet and found by an incessantly chatty farm boy named luke skywalker || i won't ask you to wait, if you don't ask me to stay || aka "making out with hot farm boys doesn't count as breaking the creed if he's blindfolded during it". edit 12/29: now with a post-series chapter 2.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker
Comments: 63
Kudos: 1222





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i know next to nothing about star wars but i DO know that i love luke skywalker and that he and the mandalorian should bang. and that blindfolded sex is hot. it's a perfect marriage~

There’s a hand on his helmet. It’s curling under the edge, reaching for the clasp that holds it in place and, despite the fact that his head feels full of imploding stars, the Mandalorian smacks it away in a sudden rough, desperate gesture.

“Dank _ferrik_ , you’re alive!” This is barely audible over the rushing in his ears, the throbbing ache rocketing from one eye socket to the other, settling in a knot above his brow and what feels like a whole hell of a lot of blood. He groans, one hand still outstretched towards the direction the hand had come from, debating opening his eyes and immediately deciding against it. His face feels coated in rapidly congealing blood, so even cracking one eye open would take more energy than he feels able to exert.

Instead he reaches out blindly towards the nonstop line of chattering that had followed the initial exclamation, wondering what sort of nightmare planet he’d fallen into. His gloved hand touches rough, sun-bleached fabric, and that -- plus all the damn sand he’s lying in -- confirms his worst assumptions.

Tattooine. _Kriffing_ Tattooine.

The Mandalorian groans, batting away the hands that keep trying to come near his helmet, stomach roiling with each movement. He’s not entirely positive how he’d gotten here, and he can’t piece together his fragmented memory with some gawking moisture-farmer trying to take his helmet off. “Stop,” he croaks finally, the effort of speaking prompting him to fall back into the sand, groaning again as he feels it permeate every crevice of his armor. He needs to _stop_ taking bounties on desert planets.

“You’re _bleeding._ ” The voice is young, younger than he’d realized, definitely male, and pitched high in annoyance. “It’s all over your armor, look!”

“Don’t...take off my helmet,” is all he says, one hand catching the farm kid’s and holding tight. There’s an indignant noise, half a squawk, and a pathetic attempt at a struggle that eventually ends in the farmer wiggling free and, from the sounds of it, falling backwards into the sand. The Mandalorian would laugh, if he wasn’t currently concussed five different ways.

Instead he rests his helmeted head back into the hollow of sand, memories filtering back through the haze of pain. He’d been on a speeder bike -- his ship was safe, then, back undergoing another damn round of repairs -- and he’d gotten careless, let down his guard. There’d been a terrific explosion, the bike had crashed and --

He lifts his head again, with an effort, forcing one blood-covered eye open, then the other. His helmet is whole (beskar, always reliable) so it’s just his injured head making his rescuer look hazy. The kid’s sitting in the sand, elbows on his knees, glaring at him with undisguised annoyance. “How’d I get here?” the Mandalorian manages. “Something -- attacked my speeder, someone knew I was coming--”

The kid huffs out a laugh, running his fingers through his mop of hair, the same sandy bleached color as the rest of the planet. He’s young, twenty at the oldest, and there’s an uncomfortable intensity to how he looks at the Mandalorian. Like he can see right through his helmet. “Nobody _attacked_ you. Those were womp rat traps. To keep them away from the cables.”

There’s a heavy, intensely awkward silence. “Womp rat...traps,” the Mandalorian finishes finally, blinking beneath the helmet like that’ll somehow resolve the bizarre situation. After years -- _years_ \-- of training, what eventually trips him up and nearly exposes him to a civilian is...a womp rat trap.

With a soft “thunk”, he lets his helmet drop back in the sand. Better to let the storms come and bury him. There’s no way he can face the rest of the covert like this. Felled by the damn pest control measures of a backwater planet.

The kid’s scooted closer, when he cracks his eyes open again, watching him with those weirdly wide, bright eyes. His helmet turns everything vaguely greenish, night and day appearing the same, all colors muted so the important details stand out. There’s not much color or beauty on a planet like Navarro -- or on Tattooine, for that matter. Miles of sand or rock, spotted with sandcrawlers and raiders and horned, fanged things.

Still, part of him is suddenly certain that the kid’s eyes are blue. Sky-above-water kinda blue. Atmosphere fading into the black abyss of space kinda blue. Sure-as-hell don’t belong on Tattooine kinda blue.

It’s an absurd thought, because he’ll never know that for sure. Because he’s going to gather together the shattered pieces of his dignity (and his body) and limp back to the Razor Crest. No doubt his bounty’s long gone, and he’ll have to start from square one, but at least he’s alive to do it. Except, the minute he tries to heave himself up, the farm boy’s reaching out, pressing down on his chest with surprising strength.

“Wait, wait, waitaminute, stop! You’re _still bleeding_ , even if you won’t let me look under the dumb helmet. If you get up now, you’ll wander off into a Sarlacc pit or Krayt cave!” Both hands are splayed out on the Mandalorian’s beskar chestplate, and he can see the rusty stain of blood spotting the kid’s sleeves, and he must be more hurt than he thought, because he lets the scrawny farm boy push him back down into the sand just like that.

“Or I’ll stay and get found by Tuskens. _We’ll_ get found, kid,” he manages, reaching to grab at the young man’s arm, surprised again by just how strong someone so skinny is. Those eyes are blazing at him, and there’s sand in the kid’s hair, but he’s not letting up.

“We _won’t._ You can come to -- Ben’s place,” the kid’s whole expression relaxes at this, like it’s something he just realized, a sudden, brilliant idea. It doesn’t mean a thing to the Mandalorian, but the farm boy’s scrambling up, going over to a damn _desert skiff_ idling a few meters away, with bits of rubble stacked on the back. The kid shoves it around, muttering to himself as he reorganizes it based on some internal logic that makes sense only to him, then returns to the Mandalorian.

He starts to protest, but it fades into a hissing groan as one arm is pulled over the kid’s surprisingly strong shoulders, and he’s lifted, first to a sitting position, then a standing one. It can’t be easy -- he’s about twice his normal weight with the beskar on, old blisters having long turned into calluses from years of carting the armor around -- but the kid grins up at him in the setting of the twin suns. “See? No problem, mister.”

The Mandalorian grunts, getting his feet under him with some shakiness, tattered cape swirling around the two of them. “What’s your name, kid?” some old sense of manners pushes him to ask, though of course he has no way to reciprocate.

“Luke Skywalker. I’m here to rescue you.”

* * *

Once they’re inside “Ben’s place” -- a dingy, sand-blasted hut jammed into a rocky outcropping and cluttered with more junk than a Huttese market -- it becomes clear that the kid -- Luke -- is taking the rescue mission _very seriously._ Because he’s back at the taking-off-the-helmet thing.

“I told you to _stop it,_ ” the Mandalorian grumbles, sharper than he means, catching one of those wandering hands by the wrist and squeezing. Despite his strange strength, the kid is still scrawny, one gauntlet easily reaching around his wrist, holding him at bay.

Even with his eyes closed -- again, his dizziness reaching new peaks after the ride on the rickety skiff -- the Mandalorian can tell Luke is barely holding back his annoyance. He can feel it through his beskar, vibrating like a living thing in the air, but he doesn’t budge, except to steer Luke’s hand away from his helmet.

There’s a huffy sound, then, with exaggerated patience, “If you’re worried about getting _sunburned_ , we’re _inside now…_ ”

The Mandalorian would laugh, if he wasn’t positive it would lead to him vomiting. He’s been accused of being many things, but afraid of a sunburn is new. “I’m not worried about getting sunburned, kid--”

“Luke.”

“--Luke.” He shifts a little on the bed he’d been carefully dragged to, conscious of Luke sitting on the edge, one lanky leg tucked up to his chest. Even in the covert, among his own kind, being this close to another living creature is a rarity. When you kill or hunt for a living, there are more kinds of armor than just beskar. It’s cooler inside, but Luke _radiates_ warmth, like one of the suns has been brought down, crammed into a too-noisy, too-energetic carrier and left to shine out in all directions.

That’s...an odd though. He’d definitely hit his head in the explosion.

The tacky sensation of dried blood pulls at his eyelashes when he forces his eyes open, lets them gaze past Luke’s earnest, concerned face. The words are rote by now -- “No living thing has seen my face since I took the Creed.”

Luke blinks a couple times, turning this around in his head, then frowning deeper. “Why?”

The Mandalorian shifts, lifts his chin and tilts his head slightly in one of the countless microexpressions that he’s perfected over the years. Some might say a featureless helmet can’t convey disapproval or annoyance, but he’s managed it. “Why what?”

“Why not?” Clearly his disapproval is too subtle for Luke Skywalker.

Another soft sigh from the Mandalorian, as he slowly moves to prop himself up against the flat, dust-stained pillows behind him. Despite his curiosity, Luke moves to adjust them, heedless in how he brushes against the sharp edges of armor, so close that the Mandalorian can catch a whiff of sun and sweat and sand. Even if the farm boy doesn’t have a clue what a Mandalorian is or can do -- which he clearly doesn’t -- he should be far more cautious than he is around a stranger.

But he’s not. He’s fearless and warm, leaning over the Mandalorian’s shoulder to press the shapeless pillow into place, looking down out of too-bright eyes and that’s right about when the Mandalorian knows he’s in _big_ trouble.

So he retreats, back into what he knows -- the Creed, the Code, the Way. “It is the way,” he mumbles, shifting his gaze to roam around the rest of the room. There are pieces of old droids, models of ships, boxes of supplies, and a healthy layer of dust. “Who’s Ben?” he asks, diverting further questions about what the way is or isn’t.

Luke sits back, follows his gaze with uncanny precision. “Just a hermit. I guess he isn’t home right now. He does that, goes out...wandering or something.” A raised and lowered shoulder. “Hermit stuff.”

Then he’s up, on his feet, crossing over to a tangle of wires and fabric on the table, sorting through it quickly until he produces a length of black cloth, some sort of old bandage or arm wrapping, perhaps. “Here we go!” he announces, looking extremely proud of himself, though it’s a complete mystery to the Mandalorian as to _why._ The kid grabs a first aid kit that’s definitely dustier than medically advised, crossing back to sit on the edge of the bed again. “Since nobody can see your face, we’ll just...hold on…” Luke mutters to himself, smoothing out the cloth, then lifting it to -- cover his eyes. He wraps it around his head once, twice, ties it neatly in the back, the long trailing ends brushing against his shoulders, fair hair sticking up around the knot.

It’s surprising and bizarrely thoughtful and extremely ridiculous all at once. The Mandalorian coughs a couple times, waves a gauntleted hand in front of the kid’s face. No reaction. “Huh. That’s -- I’m not sure I want you, uh...doctoring me up when you can’t see,” he manages finally, swallowing past a strange knot of emotion in his throat. Years behind this helmet and nobody’s ever offered to blindfold themselves for him before.

Luke scoffs, waving a dismissive hand that comes dangerously close to smacking into the Mandalorian’s helmet. “I’ve done this thousands of times. Womp rat bites are _nasty_. I could do it in my sleep.” And it’s true that he’s sorting through the dusty medical supplies with practiced ease, hardly seeming to miss his sight.

The Mandalorian opens his mouth to protest, to say he can easily clean his own injuries and doesn’t need a half-grown, blindfolded moisture farmer to help. What comes out instead is: “Okay. If you say so.”

Must be the concussion.

There’s enough dried blood congealed between his helmet and skin that taking it off draws a hiss of pain, and Luke is already reaching out, touch featherlight on the Mandalorian’s forehead, ghosting right where his flesh has split from impact, tracing the line of blood down his face. It’s cautious and incredibly gentle, and something flips over low in his gut at being so close to someone, being _touched._

“Good thing my eyes are covered,” Luke says gravely, fingers resting at the Mandalorian’s chin. “Bet you look like the business end of a bantha right about now.”

And the Mandalorian laughs, a hoarse, misused thing. Without the filter of his helmet, it’s easy to see that Luke is sunburned and sunbleached, all fair hair and golden skin and white clothes, a sliver of light in the dingy hovel. His eyes are covered by the makeshift blindfold, but the Mandalorian is even more certain that they’re blue, bright and clear and innocent.

He wants to recoil at the hands on his face, as they smooth over his stubbled cheek, learning the shape of his features. It suddenly feels more intimate than Luke looking at him would be. At least he can hide from a look.

But the stinging touch of a medi-spray-soaked cloth gets a soft, startled hiss, and the Mandalorian closes his eyes. At least then they’re on a level playing field. “Sorry,” Luke murmurs, close enough that the heat he conducts is tangible. Like being caught in a dying star -- or a newborn one, maybe, that’s a more accurate metaphor. Gods, his head is pounding, and Luke is smoothing the cloth over old blood so _gently._ Does he have to be so damn gentle? Roughness, pain would be easier to take.

Distracting himself, the Mandalorian asks, eyes still closed -- “Won’t your folks miss you, kid?”

“It’s Luke.” The cloth is re-wetted, set back at the Mandalorian’s forehead, pressed to the wound. “And nah, they know I can take care of myself. Probably think I’m out shooting womp rats or racing skiffs.” He huffs out a laugh, refolds the cloth and applies pressure, though the wound has stopped bleeding. “Can’t decide if this is better or worse.”

The Mandalorian chuckles, because he knows damn well it’s worse. He’s thinking again how easily he could reach up, snap the kid’s neck, cut off his breath with barely any effort. Then again, Luke could be hiding a knife, a blaster, anything, could turn this from gentle to deadly just as fast. The thought makes his heart race, ready to leap up, ready to defend himself.

Except there’s nothing to defend from, besides the warmth of Luke leaning over him, cleaning blood off his cheeks. Nothing he can do but sit back, wait for the careful, gentle movements to stop, for a bandage to be affixed to his split forehead, slightly crooked. When it’s over, he lets loose a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, accepting the cloth to clean off his helmet. Luke moves away, still prattling on about power converters and pod racing, dumping the medical supplies in a heap on a nearby chair.

The Mandalorian watches, holding his helmet in both hands, eyes lingering on the square shape of Luke’s shoulders, how he shifts from one foot to the other as he flings open the cupboards and starts feeling through the contents. How he’s young and bright and too innocent for the Mandalorian to be looking at him like this.

He puts his helmet back on, lets the familiar filter of greenish-brown turn everything back the way it’s supposed to be, and he tries not to feel cold, without Luke sitting beside him.

* * *

Luke asks his name no fewer than six times, before giving up and accepting “Mando”, the way most normal people do. Over the next couple days, as bruised ribs heal and gashes knit themselves back together -- and, more importantly, as Luke puts the speeder bike back together -- the Mandalorian finds himself gathering information about the farm boy, like he would for a mark.

He’s nineteen (“well, in two months,” he adds after a moment, cheeks turning red under the sun-warmed gold), lives with an aunt and uncle on a moisture farm. No cousins, no siblings, just the three of them. His best friend’s name is Biggs (which is unfortunate), he has a T-16 Skyhopper and wants nothing more than to “get off this stupid rock.”

“Nothing happens on Tattooine,” Luke grumbles, sitting cross-legged on the ground and gritting his teeth as he wrestles with a jammed bolt somewhere in the depths of the speeder. The Mandalorian doesn’t consider himself any slouch when it comes to maintaining ships, but Luke is something else entirely. It’s nearly intuitive, the way he tugs at wires and screws things into place, most of it happening while he’s rambling on about something else and scarcely paying attention to what his hands are doing. It reminds him of how he changes the bandages, always with the blindfold on, but knowing exactly where to reapply med-spray. Part of the Mandalorian had suspected that maybe the cloth was more permeable than it appeared, but when he took a look at it, left alone in the house while Luke went home for dinner, it wasn’t.

The kid couldn’t see, but he could _feel_ his way, around the room, neatly sidestepping debris piled up on the floor, never losing a breath in his constant chattering. He could feel his way around the Mandalorian’s almost-healed wounds and, by now, with more than a couple nights of Luke leaning over him, blindfolded and focused and warm, the feeling is beginning to be mutual.

The idea of doing what he’s thinking about, of reaching out with ungauntleted hand, seeing if Luke was actually as warm to the touch as he seemed, wasn’t entirely unheard of. One doesn’t need to remove their helmet to get close to someone -- or, more bluntly, to engage in a half-dozen fumbled, mostly-clothed encounters in the echoing hallways outside the Armorer’s quarters, well-aware that you’re both imagining said Armorer instead of the other. Mandalorians are a dying race, and a lonesome one. It isn’t against the creed to find someone to keep you warm.

But this feels different. When he’s leaning out over the windowsill, armor pieces piled up beside the bed, watching Luke Skywalker through the tint of his visor, or leaning back on the dismal excuse for pillows and closing his eyes against Luke Skywalker touching his face, checking his healing injuries by feel alone, it seems like an entirely different animal howling in his chest, hungry and insatiable. It feels like a betrayal, watching Luke with his unshielded eyes, noticing how the farm boy bites at his lower lip, thumb grazing over the clotted edge of a wound, knuckles soft against untamed stubble.

Even more than that, it feels like an escape.

It’s one of those nights, when Luke has promised his aunt and uncle back and forward that he’s with one of his friends -- “sniping womp hoppers?” the Mandalorian had teased lightly, promptly getting the medi-spray-soaked rag thrown at his head -- and is instead checking over the injuries that have already healed. He barely hesitates now, familiar with the sharp edge of the Mandalorian’s cheekbones, the line of his nose, the shape of his brow. His hands are warm, even with both suns setting, and roughened from a too-short life of working hard and catching risks wherever he can.

The kid doesn’t know anything about risks, not really. He’s never been off-world, he’s only seen rivers and rain in holos. He talks incessantly and never stops asking questions. And he’s leaning over, closer than he needs to, face lit in planes of light from the lamp on the table nearby, both hands coming to rest on either side of the Mandalorian’s face. They don’t need to be there. “It looks like you’re...pretty much healed,” Luke is saying, and the note of regret in his voice isn’t imagined. “Your speeder’s mostly fixed too, you could probably head out in a couple more days--”

Turns out the one thing that could stop Luke Skywalker from talking is for someone to slide their hand over the back of his neck and tug him down those last few inches, kiss him silent, kiss him clumsy and unpracticed and unsure. The Mandalorian half-expects the world to slide to a screeching halt, the creed bent, if not strictly broken. But it doesn’t. All that happens is that he satisfies his curiosity about just how warm Luke feels.

Luke doesn’t say anything when he pulls back, just breathes and runs his tongue over his lower lip, just the way he does when puzzling out a speeder engine or trying to turn freeze-dried rations into something edible. Behind the blindfold, his expression could be anything, and the Mandalorian very nearly apologizes, nearly shoves him away and grabs for his armor and leaves on a half-fixed speeder bike.

But then Luke is stumbling over himself to lunge forward, knocking his forehead to the Mandolorian’s still-healing one and getting a surprised grunt of pain that’s swallowed up by his eager, sun-chapped lips. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbles, hands up and groping, stroking through overgrown strands of hair, aiming and missing each kiss he plants on chin, cheek, lips. “I just -- _really hoped you’d do that_ , before you left. Sorry, Mando, I--”

“Din.” He’s halfway to hell already, sitting up and grabbing for Luke, two handfuls of bleached-pale fabric, dragging up up and onto his lap. “That’s my name. Din.” Might as well break every rule if he’s breaking this one, reaching up and running a thumb along the edge of the blindfold, the last concession to the rules he’s followed all his life. “Call me that.”

Luke smiles, and it’s exactly like the suns coming back out. He’s young and warm and trembling with life and eagerness, rising up on his knees, kissing the Mandolorian -- _Din’s_ \-- face until it’s etched in his mind. He doesn’t need to see to do that. “Din,” he repeats, breath catching at the thump of shed gauntlets being dumped to the floor. Luke laughs, breathless, impatient, reaching out to tug at the fastenings of armor. “Take this -- off,” he demands, his uncanny ability to navigate blindfolded failing him when it comes to beskar, apparently.

Din laughs as well, just as breathless, letting his forehead fall into the crook of Luke’s neck, breathing him in, smiling against his still-sunwarmed skin as he squirms in impatience. He wants to tell him not to rush, that they can take their time. But the words _before you left_ hit him harder than the concussion had, and he exhales, kissing the side of Luke’s neck in silent apology. He’s leaving, and that should sober him up, should make him think about what he’s doing.

He doesn’t. Instead he obeys the farm boy’s command, loosens his armor piece by piece, smiles as Luke helps him slide it off, tilting his head to one side at the new feel of each bit, clearly biting back countless questions. The only thing he’s more desperate for than knowledge is the chance to touch what the armor had been covering, fingers gliding over Din’s bared skin, tracing over old scars, calluses, muscle hardened by years of training. Every question he doesn’t ask is replaced by his mouth, lips pressed over the wounds Din’s forgotten about. Luke is shameless about it, too, tongue and teeth grazing over the sunken-in imprint of a bullet wound, making a face when Din huffs out a laughing, “Guess that answers what do kids these days do on Tattooine, huh?”

It’s a roundabout question, and Luke answers the actual one, sitting back on his heels once most of Din’s armor is gone and peeling off his own clothes. “I told you, nothing happens here. Easy to get bored, easy to fill that time up,” he says, muffled by fabric, then shaking his shaggy hair out once his shirt’s off. He’s golden-skinned all over, bringing to mind the idea of sunbathing shirtless or less out in the Dune Sea. Din has to bite back a groan at the thought, roughened hand sliding up Luke’s back, over his side, surprised again at how muscular he is under all that fabric.

Luke looks smug, covering the hand and moving it down, over his flat stomach, between his legs. “I’m not a kid, remember?” he says, though his breath hitches when Din presses down the heel of his hand. “I know what I’m doing.”

He doesn’t. _Before you left_ , echoing again, and Din drowns it out in the startled yelp Luke makes when he moves, flips them so he’s kneeling over the younger man, straddling his waist and pinning his wrists down. He kisses Luke’s neck until he laugh-screams for mercy, freed arms going around Din’s neck, tugging him back down. It’s wild, careless, like kissing sunlight, and Din’s going to leave him in the morning.

The shadows are long in the dingy hovel while Luke kicks off the rest of his clothes, leaving them in a tangled pile on the floor, though one hand goes back to make sure the blindfold is secure, tugging it back into place. Even like this, the thoughtfulness of it is gutting, and Din distracts himself by kissing down Luke’s chest, his stomach, the inside of his thigh. That, at least, he can do, can remember from the days before the armor.

He suspects that it wouldn’t matter if he couldn’t, though, because every time he touches Luke, with his hands or his lips, it’s like electricity, the farm boy’s breath catching, body arching upwards, desperate for affection, attention, _anything._ He’s breathing ragged and pleading before Din’s roughened hand even comes up to stroke over where his cock’s hard against his stomach, and the older man has to stop, wait and count out breaths in his head because he almost comes right then and there. And he wants to wait. Wants to make it last, make it count.

“Easy,” he murmurs, almost adding a term of affection, endearment to the end. He makes up for it by hooking Luke’s legs over his shoulders, stroking him a couple times, making him whine in impatience. “Easy, I’m right here,” and he doesn’t even add “for now”.

Tangled behind his head, the black fabric of the blindfold is a stark contrast to the dusty sheets, and to Luke’s fair hair, sweat-matted to his forehead as he rocks up into Din’s hand, toes curling in midair. “D-Don’t… _don’t you stop--_ ” he almost growls, and there’s a feeling then, like touching a live wire that has Din’s stomach tightening and his breath catching in a groan. It’s only age and wanting to make this last that keeps him in control.

They’re in a dingy, mostly-empty hovel, and there isn’t time to do everything Din wants, but he spits into his palm and strokes Luke until he’s whimpering and shuddering beneath him, gorgeous and wanton and reaching for him with both hands. Din moves, resting on one elbow on the bed, fitting his own hard cock alongside Luke’s in his slick hand and groaning as he thrusts into the circle of his fingers. Luke’s hands are in his hair, Luke’s legs are around his waist and Luke’s moaning his name, “Din, Din, _god, Din--_ ”

“Shh, shh,” Din murmurs against Luke’s ear, under the blindfold, overwhelmed again by the tenderness of it, the voluntary blindness, the touch, the closeness he hadn’t realized he missed so badly. His hips jerk, hand moving quicker, and when he comes, it’s with Luke’s scent, Luke’s voice, drowning him, filling him. It’s not forgiveness for what he’ll have to do, for how he’ll leave in the morning, but it feels damn close.

* * *

Luke’s still sleeping when Din wakes up, tired and worn out the way he hasn’t been in years. He feels loose-limbed, relaxed, unlike the usual sore, stiff feeling after a quick encounter in the covert halls. Granted, most of those were done standing and mostly clothed, but still.

He stretches a little, hand coming to rest on Luke’s bare back, stroking over the notches of his spine. He’s definitely never done _this_ , fallen asleep sweaty and sated and woken up with someone cuddled up to him, breathing out warm and sweet into his neck. It feels -- nice. It feels like something he could get used to.  
Which is why Din has to go.

He doesn’t wake Luke, even when he shifts to get out of bed, hesitating for a moment before clumsily pulling the blankets over him. The farm boy barely stirs, rolling over and nestling into the warm spot Din’s leaving behind. It wrenches at something in him, something he thought long dead. His mind keeps going back to the way Luke’s mouth tastes, the sound of his voice, the feel of him, and it’s worse than a hundred blaster strikes, worse than trekking through Hoth in a blizzard, worse than crashing the Razor Crest. Because Luke’s going to wake up and he’s going to be gone, and hated and remembered for the rest of his life.

Din exhales, sharply, grabbing his armor and pulling it on mechanically. Even the familiar visor-view from inside the helmet doesn’t help, not when he keeps looking back at Luke. After a moment, he crouches back, loosens the knot of the blindfold and unwraps it carefully, smoothing his thumb over the imprint the fabric’s left on the farm boy’s temple. He almost apologizes. He knows Luke wouldn’t ask him to stay, not out loud. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to refuse, if he did.

The Mandalorian leaves, carrying the blindfold in one hand. It’s tucked into his belt, then stowed away in the sleeping quarters of the Razor Crest. After a year or two, he stops even seeing it.

* * *

And then: Gideon’s cruiser, the battle, the darksaber and Bo-Katan and the appearance on the screen of someone in black. Someone who mows down the Dark Troopers like they’re nothing -- _like sniping womp rats_ , something in Din’s mind echoes.

Maybe part of him knows before the hood is pulled back. It’s been nearly a decade, and there’s a weighty maturity in that face that wasn’t there on Tattooine. But Din knows. He remembers, and there’s a tug in his chest that has nothing to do with the knowledge he’ll have to give Grogu up.

“Are you a Jedi?” he asks, stupidly, afraid to trust his voice, in case he recognizes it. Mandalorian armor all looks similar, he could not even remember, he could --

“I am.” The voice is the same, even if the face and hair and build are different. Even if he carries himself like a man, not a farm boy. It’s Luke Skywalker, and Din would know him on any planet, in any galaxy, in any lifetime.

The others have no idea, averting their eyes when he removes his helmet, when the tiny green hand comes up to rest on his cheek. Din can feel Luke watching him, scared to look up in case the hurt and betrayal he ran away from all those years ago. He couldn’t bear that, not that and saying goodbye to Grogu in the same breath.

Except then, when he looks up, Luke is smiling. And _that’s_ the same too. Luke tilts his head slightly, one gloved hand folded over one bare one, a slight invitation. Din frowns, stepping forward with Grogu in his arms.

“Hello again,” Luke says, quietly, lifting his gaze to meet Din’s for the first time, unobstructed, uninterrupted. In the demolished Razor Crest, a strip of black fabric fluttered from the walls for years, but now Din has it confirmed for certain -- Luke’s eyes are blue. Sky-above-water kinda blue. Atmosphere fading into the black abyss of space kinda blue. Sure-as-hell don’t belong on Tattooine kinda blue.

Between them, Grogu makes one of his soft, chirping sounds of question, and Luke’s serene smile deepens into the quick, bright one Din remembers. He glances down, nods slightly, and Din remembers Ahsoka, the way she and the child had spoken without speaking. It makes his face feel warm, wondering what Luke is sharing about him.

“You’re here because -- he called you,” Din manages, stutters, tries to look away from Luke and can’t. The other man is reaching out with his gloved hand, letting Grogu reach out to hold onto it with his tiny, tiny ones.

Luke nods, slightly, glancing up and arching both eyebrows. “I felt him in the Force, yes,” he says -- maddeningly, because Din still isn’t entirely positive what the Force even _is_. “But I didn’t just feel him. I felt you too.”

Grogu releases Luke’s hand, and it moves, touches the back of Din’s gauntlet, a heartbeat of contact that brings back the warmth of the twin suns and the scent of motor oil and sweat and the sound of his own name, whispered in reverence again and again. The forgiveness he’d been wanting for eight years is in that feeling, and it’s in how Luke steps back and nods towards the elevator. It’s an invitation, not to stay, but to go along.

Din glances back, at the Darksaber resting on the console, at Bo-Katan and the others watching him in evident confusion. He can almost feel Luke’s hands on his face, stroking over old wounds, soothing them. He shifts Grogu in his arms and turns back towards Luke, glances down at the perplexed little green face.

“Okay. Let’s go, pal.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL I definitely wasn't planning on a part 2 of this BUT two things convinced me --
> 
> 1) The absolutely WONDERFUL outpouring of support and positivity!! I've gotten so many lovely comments and kudos and bookmarks and it's been SO WONDERFUL!!! You're all my best Christmas presents ever, thank you so much!!
> 
> 2) Not enough smut in part 1. I am a simple woman, with simple needs.
> 
> FULL DISCLAIMER: while I did a liiiittle bit of research about the planets and timeline after the OT, this is DEFINITELY not canon-compliant, and a fix-it fic in more ways than one. There's mention of a HanLeia child, but maybe it's Ben, maybe it's Jacen, who even knows. The focus is very much on Luke moving away from the cycles he inherited, both from Vader/Anakin and the Jedi, and how him teaching the next generation will be hugely different. Also, y'know, he's gonna do it with a hot Mandalorian trophy husband, so all that "no attachments" stuff is RIGHT out the window.
> 
> Thank you all again, hope you enjoy!

Of course, everyone has an opinion about _that._ Bo-Katan is first, flanked closely by Reeves, her eyes snapping and blazing, speaking about Children of the Watch and Man’Dalor and the Darksaber and _mine by right_. Fennec seems neutrally detached, shifting her weight backwards to glance out at the darkness of space, like she’s expecting Fett to be idling outside, ready to take her away from the entire situation. But she doesn’t move to stop Din, as he carefully sets Grogu down and moves to pick up his helmet once more.

Cara is smirking, one eyebrow arched, keeping her weapon aimed towards GIdeon’s limp form. There’s recognition in her eyes, and they rest on Luke, even as the young man crouches down to sit on his heels, letting Grogu toddle closer. “You’re Skywalker,” she says finally, something bright and wondering in the words. “Lot shorter than you look on the recruitment posters.”

The helmet snaps into place with a low, familiar hiss of air, and Din turns to look at Cara in confusion. “Posters?” he repeats, and behind him, Luke makes a strangled sort of coughing sound.

“Uh, they still, uh. Make those?” And there, in the stammering words, is the bright boy from Tattooine, somewhere beneath the robes and the laser sword and the gravitas. Grogu chatters happily, grabbing onto Luke’s outstretched hands to steady himself, ears perking up like little radar dishes as Din glances back at them. It’s a strange sight, the looming Jedi warrior letting the toddler hold onto him and babble, a tinge of red creeping up his neck the longer the Mandalorian’s expressionless gaze rests on him.

It makes no sense -- Din had thought the Jedi were rare, nearly extinct. And he hadn’t realized they ran recruitment campaigns. He says as much, returning to crouch beside Grogu, watching the child’s tiny three-fingered hands curl around Luke’s index fingers -- “Jedi recruitment?”

Another one of those choked noises, and Luke is definitely red-faced now, keeping his gaze on Grogu, rather than looking up at Din. “No, no, Rebel Alliance. Or, uh, guess it’s just...the New Republic now.” He sounds unsure, looking up at where Cara is shaking her head in amusement.

She laughs, crossing her arms and smirking wider. “Blow up the Death Star -- _twice_ \-- and you’re not sure what the Republic’s called?”

Din’s head snaps back around, and he’s sure Luke can feel him staring through the helmet. “You did _what?_ ”

Grogu gazes up at him backwards, mirroring Luke’s wide-eyed stare. “You...didn’t know?” He sounds -- offended? Insulted, maybe?

It’s Din’s turn to shrug awkwardly, reaching out to rest a gauntleted hand on Grogu’s head, getting the soft chirring sound that he’s learned means fondness. “I knew it was destroyed, but I didn’t know...the particulars.” Normally he wouldn’t have minded this, not overly concerned with the actions of the various players in the galaxy’s battles. The overall effect was felt, whether he knew the names of the individual pilots or not. Still, it’s difficult to remember that with Luke looking at him like that. One thumb moves over the wispy hairs on Grogu’s head, as Din tries to remember, count back the years to the Death Star’s destruction, fit it in the short timeline of himself and Luke. Eight years ago, about which means…

Din looks up, startled, says without thinking: “Wait, that would’ve been right after we--” Luke’s eyes widen minutely, but it’s too late, because Cara has the most _delighted_ look on her face, and Grogu is tilting his head in confusion and Bo-Katan is --

Well, she’s still angry, angrier even, her already-stony face twisting in rage, eyes flashing as her hand goes to her blaster. “You _know him?_ You _were_ in league with the Jedi, this entire time, you damned--”

She likely wouldn’t have done anything, not really, but her loyalties are clear and her fury is tangible, and she moves forward with her blaster drawing and it wouldn’t matter if it were only Din himself, but Grogu is there, Grogu and _Luke_ , and Din is on his feet in an instant, reaching for his own weapon and gritting out, “ _Don’t touch him._ ”

He isn’t sure which one he’s referring to, and either way Luke can certainly take care of himself, but still. _Still._

Bo-Katan reels back a little, holding a hand out to stop Reeves, lifting her chin in defiance. But Din can only think of the soft confused sounds Grogu is making, and how weary he looks, and how even if he didn’t appear to break a sweat doing it, Luke had taken down multiple Dark Troopers and that had to have exhausted him. There’s power crackling off the younger man in waves and still all Din wants is to protect him.

To distract himself, he gestures roughly at the Darksaber, sitting on the console. “I yield. I give up. I surrender. I don’t _want_ the kriffing thing,” he grits out, refusing to even look towards the weapon and all it means. Luke had offered him a chance to stay -- with Grogu, with his clan, with his foundling. If Mandalore and it’s throne meant letting the two of them walk away ( _again_ ), Din is ready to pitch the saber out of the nearest airlock.

Behind him, Luke rises, and Grogu is settled in the crook of his arm, playing with his one dark glove and burbling to himself. Ever-social, even after the undoubted ordeal of the past several hours. And, no doubt, internalizing every angry word and obscenity Din says -- it’ll serve him right if the kid’s first words are “ _dank ferrik_ ”. So he cuts himself off before he says anything further, making the risky decision to turn his back on Bo-Katan. “Do you have a ship?” he asks Luke, shortly.

There’s a quick quirk of one eyebrow. “I do, but I don’t think you’ll fit--” he begins.

Din shakes his head, nodding towards Grogu, who is trying to eat Luke’s glove. “Wherever he goes, I go.”

Luke’s other eyebrow raises. “It’s an X-Wing. One-seater. So, unless you want to sit on my lap…”

Cara makes a noise like she’s trying to swallow her own tongue to keep from laughing, and Din sort of genuinely hopes that Bo-Katan stabs him now. He shakes his head, roughly, glances over towards Fennec. “Any of those...Imperial ships I can commandeer, Shand?” he manages, feeling hot inside his helmet.

She lets out a soft sigh, to let him know he’s greatly putting her out, before gesturing with her blaster. “In an Cruiser this size, you’ll have your choice of TIE fighters, I’m sure, in the docking bay. Have…” Here she pauses, squints towards Luke, who remains politely blank-faced. “... _him_ help you.”

There’s a story there, one that Din is too damn tired to explore. He just nods, first to Fennec, then towards Cara. “Thank you. Again.” He at least has manners, even if she looks like this is the greatest day of her life, and will no _doubt_ tell Karga every last detail. Din won’t be able to step foot on Navarro without being relentlessly teased about riding on a Jedi’s lap. Maybe he’ll paint his helmet green or something, go incognito.

She’s grinning, waving him on and speaking over Bo-Katan’s protests, saying, “Go on, Mando. If she doesn’t want the saber, I’m sure Fett would love to take it.”

There’s an indignant gasp from Bo-Katan, but Din has already turned back to Luke, who has his lips pressed together, fighting back a smile. The smile is the one from Tattooine, and if it weren’t for Grogu, nestled against the black robes, Din would turn and run. “After you, “ he manages finally, reminding himself that this is better than the alternative. Even if it freezes his heart in his chest when the smile slips away, and the solemn Jedi warrior returns. 

* * *

The TIE fighter -- “it’s an Interceptor class”, Luke offers, getting a helpless shrug from Din, who can’t possibly keep track of the various sorts of Imperial ships -- is fairly easy to manage, which makes sense if it’s only Stormtroopers piloting them. Din has always found them a little on the simplistic side.

What’s hard is that Grogu rides along with Luke and his little droid, sleepy-eyed and droopy-eared, but reaching out a tiny hand when Din doesn’t follow them. He hadn’t argued, hadn’t tried to take the child back, though his chest ached at the confused little babbling sound.

Luke had paused, ducking his head and speaking gently to Grogu. “He’s coming with us. He just needs to ride in a different ship, because we don’t have room. You see? I’m not taking you from him, you don’t need to worry.”

Din’s voice had caught in his throat, coming out more gruff than he meant, hand tightening around his beskar spear. “I thought you Jedi could...understand each other without talking.”

And Luke’s mouth had curled in a little smile, eyes bright and soft and searching. “We can. But you can’t. I didn’t want to leave you out of the conversation,” he’d said, impossibly gently. As if Din were the one needing comfort, not Grogu. Maybe he was. It’s kind, like the blindfold had been kind, like so little in the galaxy is kind. It’s...a reassuring thing, that Luke is so strong, so powerful, so much a legend, but he’s still kind.

Riding alone in the TIE fighter had given Din plenty of time to think over why, exactly, this is so reassuring to him. It shouldn’t matter. Everything that had happened before the war, before Grogu is ancient history. The covert is destroyed, his ties to Mandalore are tenuous at best, and he’s taken off his helmet in front of half a dozen people by this point. Din isn’t a bounty hunter anymore, is barely a Mandalorian. What matters is Grogu and where he goes.

He should mourn that more. Perhaps he will, later on. But as he starts the ship and eases it out into the dark abyss of space, Luke’s voice comes warm and welcoming through his comm -- “Do you read me, Mando?” -- and Din has to smile at the gleeful chattering of Grogu in the background. He recognizes the tone, even if the words themselves aren’t Basic or any other identifiable language -- the kid is _happy_ , curious and excited and playful. Like a kid should be.

It takes him a moment to remember there’s another person to respond to, clearing his throat and keeping his tone even. “I can. Is he behaving himself?” There’s a sound of something clattering, and a squawking beep from the little droid -- Artoo -- that answers his question for him.

Luke sighs, and there’s fond exasperation in the sound. “There are a lot of things to touch and play with here. Lots of temptation. One moment -- c’mere, just -- no, that’s my nose, ow --” More clattering, and in front of Din, the X-Wing swerves wildly, pilot clearly distracted. “-- here we go. You sit here. No, don’t -- I’ll drive, you navigate, deal? Say hi to your -- to Mando.”

Grogu’s voice comes, louder than before, clearly perched in Luke’s lap. He rambles something, all vowels and gurgling and delighted. Din’s heart aches, still reeling from how close he’d gotten to never hearing that voice again. He chuckles. “Hi, buddy. Don’t make Mr. Skywalker crash, he’s the only one who knows where we’re going.” A pause, then -- “Where _are_ we going?”

“Well -- nope, that’s the cannons, we’re not touching that -- Artoo, lock down the, uh, defense grid for now?” Some rustling, then coordinates are sent to Din’s navigation system. “I have a, uh, base of operations in the Unknown Regions, but the one on the Outer Rim is probably...safer. More people around, better food sources, and the Tree is there.” Luke speaks over Din’s mental concerns about the notion of a base of operations in the damn Unknown Regions, of all places. “There was a Force-sensitive Uneti Tree in the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, before the Empire took over. An ally of mine helped find the fragments and plant them on Yavin-4.”

Din grunts softly, punching in the coordinates for the remote moon, recalling vaguely that there isn’t much there. Aside from a tree that’s somehow...Force-sensitive. Sure. Why not. Maybe the tree can give the kid some tips. After the past few months, Din doesn’t think anything could surprise him. “That’s where your...school is?”

Luke is silent for a moment, during which the only noise is Grogu’s steadily-sleepier babbling. “I...hope so. Someday,” he says finally, a note of longing in his voice. “There used to be temples all across the galaxy. I’ve spent the years since the war gathering information, trying to build my knowledge so I _can_ teach. But there’s...no school yet.”

The next words come out sharper than Din means them too -- “You’ve _never taught before?_ So you were just going to what, take the kid away without having any idea what you were doing?”

Even in the face of Din’s shock and annoyance, Luke’s voice stays soft, gentle. “No, I wasn’t. I wouldn’t have done that to him. To you. He called me and I answered, I came to meet him, I agreed to teach him what I know. But I wouldn’t have taken him without you.”

There’s a long silence, during which Din seriously considers shutting off the comm. How does he know Luke’s telling the truth? Based on a handful of days nearly a decade ago, a quick intimate encounter, years of regret? Is it only guilt that’s keeping him from demanding they land, that Luke hand Grogu back over, that they try and build a life far away from Jedi and the Force and whatever other unknowns?

As if reading his mind -- and maybe he can, maybe that’s part of the whole _Force-thing_ \-- Luke clears his throat, speaks again. “I meant what I said. I will defend him with my life, I will teach him as best as I can. But --” He stops, and Din is no Force-sensitive tree, but the sadness in Luke’s voice is tangible. “I won’t repeat the mistakes of the Jedi that came before me. I won’t tear another child from their parent.”

There are a hundred questions related to that, but Grogu interrupts them by letting out a wearied, put-upon sigh. Luke laughs, and the sadness is gone. “Right, of course. Sleeping in an X-Wing is no fun, I agree.” Then, to Din: “Listen, it’s a long trip, and we should leap to hyperspace without delaying any longer. Once we’re back, I’d be happy to answer any questions you have.”

A moment of hesitation, then, softer: “ _Any_ questions. All right?” “Fine,” Din manages, relenting to the exhaustion in that tiny voice. “Once we’re back.” 

* * *

Yavin-4 is green and warm, lush trees and the sound of birdsong. It’s also very much the middle of nowhere, bringing to mind the idyllic remoteness of Sorgan. Din shuffles those thoughts to the back of his mind, disembarking from the TIE fighter and stretching with a soft groan. The Razor Crest might’ve been pre-Empire, but at least there was room to walk around. The landing bay is that only in theory, a somewhat cleared spot close to a half dozen huts. There’s no bustling of a spaceport, or even anyone to greet them -- no surprise, considering the reddish sun is already well below the horizon.

In the darkness, Luke almost disappears entirely, clad in black as he is. Grogu is a greenish smudge, nestled in his arm, ears twitching slightly as he sleeps. Din steps forward in spite of himself, arms going out, even the relatively short separation too much for him. Then he stops, helmeted gaze turning to Luke, who’s just standing there, watching him with those soft, serious eyes. T

he younger man smiles, gentle, so gentle. It’s impossible to hate him when he’s so damned _gentle_. “You can carry him. If you prefer. I’ll be leading the way, so it’s probably best that I have my hands free, just in case.” Din nods slightly, reaches to take Grogu and let him settle against his chest with a contented sigh. He glances towards the huts in question, and Luke shakes his head, pulling up his hood. “I live...a little farther from the settlement. Privacy.” A beat, then, quieter -- “For all of us.”

Then he turns, robe swishing around him, shoulders square underneath it, leaving Din to wonder. He supposes it’s possible that people trying to settle, build a life would be wary of something mythical like a Jedi warrior. Even more so of a living legend like Luke Skywalker. Had he been alone all this time? Keeping his distance, with his saber and his droid for company?

Cradled in his arms, Grogu shifts, sighs softly, and Din tightens his grip slightly. Is that the fate of all Jedi, or just Luke? _He brought me along,_ he reminds himself, firmly. _That means something._ Just what, though, he had no idea.

The walk through the jungle is remarkably quiet. Luke stays several paces ahead, somehow never getting his billowing robes caught on branches or losing his footing, even in the darkness. And, while he’d been expecting to stumble every few moments, the way lit only by the other full shapes of the moons orbiting Yavin Prime, Din’s path also stays remarkably clear. He wonders if that’s Luke’s doing, if he simply knows the journey so well that there aren’t any obstacles, or if it’s another...Force-thing.

It’s probably another Force-thing.

The little droid, Artoo, trundles along behind Din, beeping and whistling occasionally, like he’s making polite conversation. He stops periodically to lever himself over tree roots or rocks, booping mournfully every time. Luke always pauses, waits, amusement rolling off him in waves. Din could ask about why the droid is with them, especially considering they seem to be heading fully into the middle of the jungle. But he remembers IG-11, remembers the comfort even metal and bolts and circuits can give, remembers how lonely Luke seems, and stays quiet.

Eventually they emerge from the forest into a clearing, the full moons and stars lighting it almost as clear as day. There’s a modest hut beside a fire pit and, glistening in the moonlight, a strange tree with golden leaves. Luke pauses, pushing back his hood and breathing in slowly, then exhaling, his caution and wariness melting away. When he turns, it’s with that bright smile, warm and relieved. “Here we are. That wasn’t so bad, hm?”

“Not bad at all,” Din agrees, quietly, feeling an odd current in the air, like electricity, like standing too close to a fire. A warmth that he recognizes from the last time he was around Luke without armor. It’s stronger now, coaxing and welcoming, slipping past his defenses. Bathed in moonlight, Luke looks like he did that night on Tattooine, and Din’s chest gives a painful wrench. This...might’ve been a mistake.

He shoulders it aside, nodding towards the house. “I should -- put him to bed,” he manages. Luke nods, pulling off the robe and going to crouch beside the fire pit, sitting back on his heels. Din stands for a moment, awkwardly, like he can’t look away from the curve of Luke’s back, from how he shifts from foot to foot, how he hums softly to himself as he builds up the coals and coaxes a fire into light. Then he snaps out of it, going to the hut and telling himself to stop being so ridiculous. He’s here for Grogu, warm and tiny in his arms. He’s here for their clan of two, for his foundling, for his _kid._ He can ignore old memories for that sake.

It becomes easier as he settles the child onto the pillow of the single bed inside the hut, not letting himself look around at the stacks of books and robot parts, at the clutter that reminds him so vividly of those days in Old Ben’s house. Vaguely, Din wonders whatever became of the hermit. If he ever found out about what he and Luke did in his bed. He winces a little, ears burning, forces himself to focus on pulling the blanket up over Grogu, who is snoring tiny and adorable, curled into a little green bean of contentment. _He_ certainly seems happy, at least. Din just has to catch up.

It’d be easy to hide inside for a while, to let himself settle and calm down. But the sound of the fire and the unmistakable warmth of Luke’s presence is like a magnet, and Din slowly returns outside, glad for his helmet hiding the torrent of emotions on his face. Luke is preoccupied when he returns, gazing off at a spot on the other side of the fire, murmuring softly, stopping at intervals like he’s having a conversation. He turns when Din settles on one of the logs pulled up to serve as seating, offering a smile. “Is he sleeping?” At Din’s nod, Luke exhales, clearly relieved. “Good. I was concerned being in a new place might make it harder, but...I guess I forgot how resilient kids are.” He chuckles, poking at the blazing fire with a stick. “My sister’s son is impossible to get to sleep, but that’s probably just his father’s influence.”

Din frowns, shifting forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “You told me you didn’t have any siblings.”

Luke blinks a couple times, glances over at him sideways. “You remembered.” It isn’t a question, but Din nods anyways, suddenly focused on the grooves in his gauntlets. Luke pokes at the fire once more, then tosses the stick in, rising to his feet. “It’s...sort of a long story, but. I do. A sister. A twin, actually. She’s living on Coruscant, helping to build the New Republic.” He huffs out a laugh, arms crossed, watching sparks rise from the crackling fire. “She’s definitely more of a diplomat than me.”

“Yeah, you...don’t seem much of a politician,” Din murmurs, tilting his head to one side. “Living out in the middle of nowhere isn’t very. Political.”

A laugh, the same laugh, _god_ , why can’t he stop comparing this night to those other ones. “Nah, definitely not. But I like the quiet. It’s...peaceful. Lots of time to think.” Luke stretches, arms above his head, rising up onto his toes, and Din can see the farm boy, still, the careless, loose-limbed way he moved, the enthusiastic energy in every gesture. It’s like the Jedi back on Gideon’s cruiser had been another sort of robe, and every moment alone with Din has it slipping a little more. “I’m going to change, if you don’t mind. It gets warm at night here, and all-black is a little...much.”

Din shrugs, nods, sits back to watch the fire. He doesn’t add his opinion, that the all-black ensemble makes Luke look mysterious, foreboding. That Din remembers him in white. What he remembers doesn’t matter.

But apparently it does, because when Luke returns, it’s with his hair fluffed up and his shoulders loose and relaxed, under robes of a greyish color. The moon hits them, brightens them, and he settles onto the log beside Din, close enough that the older man’s back stiffens, his chest clenches. He keeps his gaze fixed on the fire, tries to find a safe topic that isn’t how close they are. “You -- mentioned the Jedi of the past? How they...found pupils?”

Luke is watching him. Din can feel it like a physical touch, and he doesn’t look back. After a long pause, Luke sighs, turns to watch the fire as well. “Yes. It was customary for Force-sensitive children -- younglings, they called them -- to be taken from their families as soon as they began exhibiting signs of sensitivity. They were raised in the temples, away from attachments that might be...distracting to them.”

Din grunts, softly, folding his hands together loosely. “And you disagree with that.”

“I do.” Some of the youthful relaxation leaves Luke’s voice, his posture, replaced with a steely resolve. “I grew up without parents, with a...void where they should’ve been. My father was -- taken from his mother at a young age to be trained as a Jedi, and that loss was a wound he carried all his life.” He presses his lips together, eyes bright and intent, lit by the fire. “I don’t think that attachments, that affection or love are things we should run from. I think they make us stronger. Wiser. Braver.”

Somehow Din doesn’t think they’re still talking about the Jedi. He keeps his gaze ahead, hands tightening together. “Sometimes,” he allows, finally. “Sometimes they’re -- painful.”

Luke is looking at him again. “Pain makes us human. Pain reminds us what’s important, what’s worth protecting. Worth holding onto.” He’s warm, wrapped in moonlight and fireglow. He’s right there, and Din is so selfish, so weak. Luke shifts closer, radiating that warmth. “You’re allowed to be selfish,” he says, and Din turns to look at him, sharply.

He’s smiling, but Din’s voice is low, unsure. “Don’t...read _my_ mind too. I don’t know how this Jedi thing works, but --”

A shake of his head, and Luke reaches out, touches the back of Din’s hand, his own still clad in the black glove. “I don’t need to. You’ve always been easy to read. Easier than you realize. Even back then, I knew what you were thinking. I could feel you right across the room, across the sand, when I wasn’t beside you.” He smiles, and there’s a wickedness in it, boyish and bemused. “I knew what you wanted, even when you wouldn’t let yourself. It was -- a relief, when you did.”

Din shakes his head, but doesn’t pull away, doesn’t do anything but clutch his hands tighter together. “I _left,_ ” he says finally, the words two sharp snaps in the night. “You should -- hate me for that. I let myself slip and then I _left you._ ”

Luke’s gaze softens, and there’s sadness there. But not the long-resentful, bitter ache Din had expected. He untangles Din’s fingers from where they’re clutched together, takes one hand and turns it over, looking down at the battle-scarred leather of his gauntlet. “You did. And now you’re here. And in between, we had things to do. We had our own fate, our own journeys.” He looks up, lifts his chin, rests his palm against Din’s. “What would be different if I had asked you to stay?”

The answer comes before Din can think better of it -- “I would be with you now. I wouldn’t have -- gone.”

He can see the surprise in Luke’s face, the serenity slipping into hopefulness, and then back to that smile. “You _are_ with me now, Din,” he says, softly, lacing their fingers together. “And this time I _am_ asking you to stay.” He takes a breath, quick, voice turning pleading. “I want you to stay. However you can, however long, in whatever way. Stay. With me, with your boy, with us.”

Softer, almost a whisper -- “ _Stay, Din._ ”

There’s a long moment where the only sound is the crackling of the fire, the wind in the trees. Then Din pulls his hand away, and there’s a flash of hurt on Luke’s face, one that he covers quickly, the solemn composure of the Jedi master shuttering into place like a mask. Din shifts away, reaches up --

\-- and removes his helmet.

When he turns back, Luke -- Luke Skywalker, absurd, wonderful, powerful and strange and unpredictable -- has his eyes shut tight. Din laughs, the sound coming out in a rush, pulling off his gauntlets off and reaching to rest on either side of Luke’s face. His rough thumb runs over Luke’s cheek, searching and finding what’s changed, what’s the same, what age has written on the face he never stopped remembering. “You can look, Luke,” he says, waiting for those bright blue eyes to open, to fix on him, to linger like they hadn’t on the cruiser.

It turns out that kissing the savior of the galaxy is just like kissing a farm boy on Tattooine. There’s still the warmth of those twin suns, captured in how Luke sighs into Din’s mouth, how he reaches up to grab onto his hands, how he leans forward so eagerly they both almost topple off the log into the moonlight grass. There’s still the laugh once they pull apart, Luke resting his forehead against Din’s, bumping their noses together, that electricity-feeling rushing over the two of them like a wave. Maybe it’s the Force. Maybe it’s just Luke.

“I’m -- glad you, um. Made that decision,” Luke says finally, once Din’s kissed him thoroughly and breathless. “It would’ve been _very awkward_ here otherwise. I don’t know how good a teacher I would be if I was constantly thinking about you without your armor.”

Din huffs out a laugh, tugging gently at a strand of Luke’s hair -- darker now, without the sun-bleached look of years ago -- and saying gravely, “Please _don’t_ think about me without my armor where Grogu can get into your head. That’s not a conversation I want to have with him.”

Luke rolls his eyes, reaching to carefully unbuckle one of the straps keeping the beskar plates in place. Din lets him. “One of us has to, eventually. A Jedi must be aware of all the myriad ways the galaxy brings people together,” he says sagely, moving from piece to piece of armor.

“Please can we discuss co-parenting when you _aren’t_ undressing me?” Din manages, exasperated and fond and relieved. The word had slipped out accidentally, his internal way of thinking about Grogu as his child mixing with how he thought of Luke. But the other man just grins, relents, helps Din out of his armor without more words on the subject. The grass is soft, cool in the moonlight, the air damp and hot between the two of them when Luke not-so-ceremoniously pushes him to his back and kneels over him. Din would be privately happy to just kiss him again, to feel his skin, relearn the shape of him, the way he sounds, the way he tastes.

But Luke is urgent, impatient, the way he’d been those years before. It makes Din wonder who else he’s been with in that time, if he’d been the same way, needy and demanding with every breathless kiss. And then Luke shrugs out of his robes and Din stops wondering. There are new scars over muscle, including a perfect circle up one wrist that he reaches to trace his fingers over, a question in his eyes. Luke shakes his head, gently, moving the other hand to cradle Din’s face, thumb over his lower lip. “Later,” he promises quietly. “I’ll tell you -- everything. Later.”

Then he ducks down, kisses Din again, this time with more heat, tongue sliding against his, teeth nipping at his lips, guiding the other man’s hands to coax down his bare sides, over his back, arching into the touch. Luke moans against Din’s mouth when the hands finally reach his hips, his ass, rocking backwards and mumbling, “In my -- robes. Lefthand side.”

Din doesn’t especially appreciate having to stop touching Luke, but he obligingly reaches out, fumbles into the discarded robes, finding a small vial of something clear and liquid. He arches an eyebrow, asks, “Is this why you went and changed?” and gets a completely shameless nod in return. Because it’s Luke, and of course that’s where his mind was, on getting Din naked on his back out under the moonlight, on opening the vial with his teeth and pouring the slippery contents over the older man’s rough fingers and then pulling them back to press into him, slowly, cautious.

It’s been years since Din did this, and his memories are all from inside the helmet, the sliver of view, the muffled sound of his own voice and that of his partner. Luke, in contrast, is _noisy_ , demanding and impatient over him, begging for more, for another finger, for a third, hot and slick around Din’s clumsy digits, hands curling into fists on Din’s chest. He moves with the same grace he’d had back on the cruiser, liquid-smooth and quick, throws his head back with his hair sticking to his forehead, his back arched, his mouth open and _god_ , Din hates himself for leaving.

The thought comes, then goes, pushed away by that crackling warmth, by Luke rocking back onto his hand, reaching to touch his face with that same gentleness, turn his gaze back upwards. “It’s okay,” Luke says, breathes, the words not so much heard as _felt_ , as poured into Din’s mind and consciousness, filling him with forgiveness, with absolution. There’s no room for resentment, not with Luke looking at him like that, silhouetted in moonlight, repeating again, “It’s _okay._ ”

Din exhales, the sound almost a sob, then surges upwards, free hand going to the back of Luke’s neck, pulling him closer, the slippery fingers sliding loose in favor of guiding his aching, hard cock to glide into the younger man. Luke makes a soft, shuddering sound, presses his forehead to Din’s shoulder, shifts backwards until he’s fully seated, knees on either side of Din’s waist, wrapped up in him, warm and shivering and _perfect._ For a moment neither of them move, breath ragged and shuddering, like they’re afraid to break the spell.

Then Luke leans back, kisses Din’s forehead, his nose, his lips, slow and careful, eyes closed again. He doesn’t miss, whether because of the Force or because he remembers the cartography of Din’s face, the shape of him, the scars and the lines and the old wounds. He ends by kissing where the old wound had long since healed, across Din’s brow, leans back and smiles at him, boyish and forgiving and blissful.

When Din moves, it’s slow, unpracticed, languid like he’d wanted to be all those years ago. He takes his time, there under the moonlight, Luke in his arms, lets the younger man set the easy pace, understands for the first time the difference between fucking and lovemaking. It’s a strange word, one he doesn’t have time to think over before Luke is moving just right, tight and warm and slick around him, and he’s shuddering, eyes fluttering closed. One clumsy hand finds it’s way between them, wrapping around Luke’s length and coaxing him into following soon after, with that soft exhale of his name -- “ _Din,_ ” -- that he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of hearing.

Din settles back onto the grass, catching his breath, stroking up and down the notches of Luke’s spine as he goes soft inside him, looks back and up at the moons, at the stars. He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t _need to_. There’s time to talk about things later, to make plans, to reveal secrets, to untangle the years between them. Now, Luke is warm and curled to his chest, stroking over his old scars, warm and sun-bright under the moon.

Now, he has all the time in the galaxy.


End file.
